Hidden truths
by SnarkyMuch2
Summary: Set after the phone call with Dean in Season 7 episode 14 when Dean asks Sam what in the world the clowns did to him. Sam has a secret he's never told anyone, and when he sees a clown at Plucky's, his world begins to spiral out of control. Warnings for self-harm and discussion of past sexual abuse. Hurt/Limp!Sam Protective/BigBrother!Dean
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Hidden Truths

**Author:** Snarkymuch

**Rating:** T

**Genre:** Hurt/Comfort

**Pairing(s)/Character(s):** Sam, Dean

**Warnings:** Past sexual abuse

**Spoilers:** Season Seven

**Summary:** Set after the phone call with Dean in Season 7 episode 14 when Dean asks Sam what in the world the clowns did to him. Sam has a secret he's never told anyone, and when he sees a clown at Plucky's, his world begins to spiral out of control.

* * *

**Hidden Truths**

Clicking the phone closed, Sam tosses it onto the bed and then walks over to the table and grabs the bottle of whiskey, taking a sip. It burns, but he welcomes the feeling. It gives him something else to think about other than his conversation with Dean.

'What in the world did they do to you?' Dean's words echo in his mind.

He takes another long pull from the bottle, just wanting to forget exactly that. It's something that he's never told another human being and something that he never will as long as he can help it.

Knowing he has to do his job, Sam grabs his coat. He's going to Plucky's. The closer he gets, the more his heart pounds in his chest. His breathing quickens, and he struggles to keep from shaking. He gets as far as the parking lot before his stomach rebels, and he has to go dashing to the bushes to puke. He heaves until he has nothing left.

Pushing himself up to stand, he looks at the creeptastic building. It's just like he remembered, clowns adorning every available surface, the colors bright and sharp. It assaults his senses. This is his personal hell; nothing could be worse than remembering what had happened to him here.

He takes a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his fists. His rational mind knows that nothing inside there can hurt him now—he's not that eight year old boy anymore—but it's like he's frozen, unable to take the simple steps inside.

The sound of the doors opening catches his attention. He looks over and sees a clown stepping out through the main doors. He's got a lighter in one hand and pack of Marlboro's in the other. It makes Sam's muscles tense, and he steps back instinctively.

The overweight clown pauses when he sees Sam, looking him up and down. Sam knows he must look nearly as bad as he feels. The staring eyes of the clown make him want to crawl out of his skin. He brings a shaky hand up and wipes the sweat from his brow. The clown's face tightens in concern, causing lines to break in his makeup, and he walks toward Sam.

"Hey, buddy, you all right?" he asks, tilting his head to the side.

Sam nods, putting up his hands. "Yeah, I'm fine," he says, taking a step back and nearly tripping over the curb. He just wants to get away as quickly as possible without drawing any more attention to himself.

"You can't be here if you've been drinking," the clown says, pointing to the sign. "This is a family joint."

"Sorry," Sam says with a wave. "I'm just leaving."

The clown eyes him suspiciously and then walks off toward the corner of the building. When he gets there, he lights his cigarette, but his eyes never leave Sam.

Sam doesn't look back as he begins to run from the building. It's like he can feel everything his younger self once felt all over again, and it makes him want to curl up and cry just like he did back then.

When he gets back to the motel, he locks the door and begins to pace the old, threadbare carpet. He wrings his hands. The memories have never felt so real before, and he doesn't know what to do. And then it hits him. He needs to find a way to ground himself. Maybe the same tricks he uses on his hallucinations of Lucifer will work here. He rubs at the scar on his hand, pressing hard against it. Nothing happens. It doesn't work, so he digs his nail in. The little bit of pain momentarily makes him feel better.

Suddenly, a key rattles in the door handle, and Sam's gaze snaps to it. He's sure it's Dean and his body goes rigid. He has no idea what he's going to tell him.

Dean is looking down as he steps in and doesn't see Sam straight away. He tosses a bag of what looks like takeout on the table, and when he does look up, his eyes go wide.

"What are you doing here? Why aren't you down at Plucky's?"

Sam licks at his lips, his hands fidgeting at his sides. He frowns. "I was … I mean I went down there, but my stomach started acting up so I came back."

Dean raises a brow. "Are you sure it was your stomach and not your clown thing again?"

Sam shook his head. "No, it's really my stomach. If you don't believe me, go look. I hurled all over their bushes."

Dean's nose crinkled. "Eww."

"Yeah, I think we should probably avoid the diner on the corner."

Dean shrugged. "You go right ahead, but I love their burgers, so I'll take my chances."

Sam shifts his weight from foot to foot. "I hate to put more work on you, but is there any chance you could go down to Plucky's for me? I'm afraid if I go down there I'll end up puking all over some kid."

"You're really feeling that sick?" Dean walks over to him and presses his palm against Sam's forehead. "Not hot," he says, stepping back.

Sam cringes back. He hates lying to Dean, but there isn't any other choice. Even if he wanted to tell him, he's not sure he would be able to find the words to do it in.

"Fever or not, I can't stay out of the bathroom. There's no way I can go out like this."

Dean frowns and then nods. "Okay, stay here and get some rest. I'll head down to clown central and see what I can dig up."

He pats Sam on the shoulder and then grabs his coat, heading back out the door.

"Thanks, man," Sam says.

"No problem. Get some rest."

It takes two more days before the clown case is tied up, all of which Sam spends guiltily in and out of the bathroom pretending to be sick while his mind torments him. It's been circling around the same thoughts, the same memories, forcing him to relive them again and again in horrific detail.

"You sure you're okay to travel?" Dean asks, tossing his bag in the trunk.

Sam nods. "Yeah. I'm good."

"Good, let's hit the road then."

Sam watches the passing scenery, try to stay focused on the present. The memories are back, though, ghosting through his mind, taunting him, and the harder he tries to push them away, the harder they push back. He can almost feel hands on him again, tugging and pulling at his clothes.

He clenches his fists and takes a breath. It catches Dean's attention, who turns and looks at him quizzically. "You gonna be sick again?" he asks, already pulling the car over to a stop.

Sam shakes his head. "Nah, I'm all right."

Dean studies him for a moment for then nods, pulling the car back onto the road.

As soon as they reach the next motel, Sam makes a beeline for the shower. He feels dirty and wants nothing more than to stand in the hottest water he can find and wash away the hands that keep touching him.

The water feels good against him, and he relaxes a little. He's not sure how long he's in there but eventually there is a knock at the door. Sighing, he steps out of the shower, shouting, "Hang on a sec."

He towels off and throws on a pair of his loose fitting sweats. "It's open," he calls.

The door opens, and the cool air brushes against his skin, making him shiver.

Dean steps in. "You know you've been in here for almost an hour."

He shrugs. He really hadn't noticed.

"Sorry, I'm done now. It's all yours." He steps by Dean and out of the too small room.

Sam takes a seat on the edge of one of the beds. He grabs his duffel and digs through, looking for a shirt. He finds one and puts it on.

When he looks up again, Dean is leaning against the bathroom doorway, watching him.

"There's something off about you."

Sam's brows pinch together, and he shrugs. "I'm fine, Dean, really."

"It's the clown thing, isn't it?"

"Drop it, Dean."

"You weren't really sick, were you?"

Sam looks at Dean, clenching his jaw. "Leave it alone," he warns.

The warning seems to do nothing but egg Dean on.

Dean pushes himself up from the wall and walks over to the bed across from Sam's, taking a seat.

He stares at Sam like he can see straight through him. Maybe he can.

Dean's expression softens. "What happened to you?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Don't lie. You're bad it. I'm your brother, remember?"

"And I'm asking you, Dean, as my brother, please, let this go." Sam pushes himself up from the bed and begins pacing the room.

"Sorry, I can't do that, man, not this time," Dean stands, sticking his hands in his pockets, watching Sam pace the floor.

Sam's hands are shaking, and he clenches his hands into fists, digging the nails into his skin to feel the pain. The pain keeps him grounded, keeps him from getting lost in the memories.

"Sammy, what aren't you telling me? Does this really have to do with some stupid clown?"

Even the word 'clown' sends a shiver down Sam's spine. He squeezes his fist tighter, feeling the muscles strain under the force. The nails cut deeper, and he can feel the dampness of what can only be blood collecting on his palm.

"Sammy?" Dean ask softly, approaching him slowly like he's afraid he might cower back.

Sam looks up and meets his gaze. "You really wanna know?" Sam challenges him.

Dean's brows pinch together, and he nods. "Yeah, I do."

Sam licks his lips and looks out the window before his gaze falls back to Dean. "He touched me, all right?" It comes out flat and without emotion.

Dean stops dead in his tracks; his mouth falls open and then closes again. He stares at Sam, his face twisted in confusion. Sam wishes he could take back what he said, but it's too late now. The cat's out of the bag. Now the world knows, now Dean knows, just how weak he is.

"Who … what?" Dean asks, his face contorting into something Sam assumes is disgust; Sam can't blame him for it. He let this happen to him.

The rest of the words seem to tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them. "You and Dad were on a hunt. I was sick so you told me to—"

"Stay back. I remember. We left you at a Plucky's for the day."

"Yeah but you didn't come back until late. They started closing and then …"

Sam struggles to find the words to finish, but he can't.

"Please, Sammy." Dean expression softens. "I need to know."

"One of the workers, a clown, came out and started talking to me. I tried to get away from him, but he was too strong. He grabbed me and took me back inside."

Sam closes his eyes and waits for the reprimand. He knows he didn't try hard enough to stop the attack. He was a trained hunter.

Dean took another step closer to him. "Jesus, Sammy. Did he …" Dean paused, swallowing hard. "Did he hurt you?"

Sam's gaze fell to the floor. It was enough to give Dean the answer he needed.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I should have used my training, but I was so scared. I let you down."

"Don't you dare apologize! This is not your fault," Dean takes a step toward Sam. "Why didn't you tell us, Sammy?"

"I thought you'd be mad." Sam has tears in his eyes now, and he it makes him feel even weaker.

Dean suddenly turns and charges into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. The water comes on a moment later. Dean's rejected him just like he knew he would. He wishes he could take it all back, but it's too late now.

Sam's chest aches, and he just wants to curl up and die. He fists his hair in his hands and stumbles back until his back hits the wall and then slides down it, curling up in a ball.

A sob breaks from his chest, and he rests his head on his knees. He can feel the unwanted touches on his body again, just like that day, moving over arms and neck. He can't take the feeling of his skin crawling and so he starts scratching at himself, digging at the ghosts. He claws mindlessly until he begins to draw blood.

Then suddenly there are hands on him, grabbing his wrists and pulling them down. His too broken to struggle, too tired. He lets the hands pull him forward and against a solid chest. There are soothing words being whispered against his hair as strong arms wrap around him and hold him tight.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean says, "I've got you. It's okay. It's okay."

Dean begins to rock him gently, and Sam chokes out a sob. "I tried so hard, Dean."

"I know you did, buddy. I know," Dean says, rubbing his hand over his back. "Shhh, it's gonna be okay now. I've got you. Let me take care of you."

* * *

** AN:** Feedback is love! I am very nervous about this and would love to know what you think.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN:** A special thanks to kazluvsbooks for prereading. She gave me the confidence to continue this past a one-shot.

**Warnings:** There is **self-harm** in this chapter. Please don't read if it bothers you.

* * *

**Hidden Truths**

Dean doesn't know what to say. The simple platitudes of 'it's okay' or 'it's going to be all right' don't seem like enough. They're lies and he knows it. Everything is not okay, not one bit. His baby brother has just told him that he was … that someone had hurt him when he should have been there to protect him. He had failed him. But even worse is the thought that Sam has been carrying this weight alone for all these years.

He leans his cheek against Sam's head and sighs into his hair. He wishes he could go back and change things, make Dad leave the hunt earlier, but he can't. He can't take his brother's pain away, and because of it, he feels completely helpless.

Sam shakes under him and Dean squeezes him tighter. He has no idea if what he's doing is helping or hurting but part of him needs the contact. He needs to feel that Sam is alive and safe in his arms.

Sam is keening now, has been for the last few minutes, and Dean holds him through it like somehow his arms can keep his little brother together. What he wouldn't give to take his pain. Dean can't remember a time where he's felt so lost, so utterly useless.

Eventually, Sam's breathing evens out and his sobs die off to hiccupsm and Dean breathes a sigh of relief. He can deal with any other kind of Sam, but Hurt Sam crushes him.

Dean brushes the hair out of Sam's eyes; the poor kid's forehead is drenched in sweat and his cheeks are soaked with tears. "Just take it easy, Sammy," Dean says. "Nice slow breaths."

It takes another five minutes of coaxing to get Sam back to himself enough that he's breathing like a regular person. And that's when things get awkward.

What do you say to you brother after something like this? What do you say to anyone?

Dean releases Sam, not sure whether to give him space or stay close. He's completely lost and looks to Sam to take the lead. Whatever he needed, Dean would give it to him.

Sam draws a shaky breath and pushes himself up and away from Dean. Dean stays crouched on the floor as he watches Sam run his fingers through his hair and wipe his face on his sleeve.

That's when Dean catches sight of the slight stain of blood on Sam's palm. It's faint but his trained eyes have no problem seeing it. He wonders what could have done it, and then he remembers Sam clenching his fists earlier. The thought that Sam had hurt himself makes him feel ill.

Dean stands and walks over toward Sam, who steps away, putting up a hand. "I just need a minute, all right?"

"Sam, your hand," Dean says, pointing to the pinkish stain of blood.

Sam closes his fist and turns without another word, hurrying into the bathroom. He locks the door behind him and goes over to the sink, leaning over it, hands gripping either side of the porcelain.

"Open up, Sam," Dean pounds on the door. "I need to know that you're all right in there."

Sam is far from all right. He's staring at his reflection in the mirror, wondering when the swollen eyed man in the mirror had become him. He splashes cool water on his face, letting it drip down off him. It feels good, but it stings his palm.

He looks down at the damage. There is a perfect crescent cut into his hand just beside the scar. He pushes on it out of curiosity and gasps. For a small cut it's rather painful. Strangely the pain feels good and makes it easier to concentrate. He presses down on it again and relaxes a little.

There is another round of pounding on the door and Sam glances over at it in time to see it shake under the force.

Sam doesn't know how to face Dean. Never in his life has he fallen apart so completely in front of anyone, especially his brother.

He takes a breath and lets it out slowly, trying to steady himself.

"Sammy, if you don't open up, I'm kicking in the door."

Sam sighs, knowing Dean would do just that. Reluctantly, Sam goes over to the door and unlocks it, stepping back. Sam knows he still looks like shit, and it's going to do nothing to calm his brother's worry. And that's really it, isn't it? He doesn't want Dean to worry about him. He doesn't want him to hurt along with him. When he confessed the truth, he'd ripped out Dean's heart at the same time.

"Hey," Dean says, pulling him from his thoughts. "How you doing?"

Sam shrugs, averting his gaze to the floor, something about Dean's eyes cut straight through him. It's like he can look right into his soul and see the scars there. It makes Sam swallow hard, and he shoves his hands into his pockets.

"I'm okay," Sam lies. "I just needed a minute."

Dean looks like he doesn't know what to say, and it scares Sam a little. Dean is always the strong one, and now he looks just as broken as Sam.

"Do you need anything." Dean half shrugs, looking around the small bathroom. "I mean, is there anything I can do?"

Sam shakes his head. "No, I don't think so. A shower would be nice, though."

Dean smiles tightly and shakes his head. "Can't help you there, man."

Sam tries to smile, but from Dean's reaction he figures it came out more like a grimace.

"Well, do you want something to eat, some of the rabbit food you like so much? I'll go pick it up."

Sam takes a breath and nods, trying to put on his best face, trying to pretend that he hadn't just had all his emotional wounds on display.

"Sure, sounds good," he says.

Dean hesitates in the door. "You gonna be okay here by yourself?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "I'm a big boy, Dean."

"Okay, well, I'll be right back," Dean says. "And, Sam, take it easy while I'm gone, all right?"

Sam nods and waves him off. "Just go get the food. I'll be fine."

Dean walks off, and a second later, Sam hears the jingle of keys and then the door slamming closed.

He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. He thought he was past all this years ago. He had put it all in little boxes in the back of his mind, never intending to open them, but now that he has, there is little he can do to put it all back. It's like the past has flooded out and washed him away. He feels so lost and overwhelmed.

Needing to get some relief, he strips down and gets into the shower. He turns the water as hot as it will go and lets the water sting against his flesh. Just like the cut on his hand, this feels good, and he lets it sweep away his pain.

He presses his hands against the shower wall and ducks his head, letting the water wash over him. He turns his head and sees something on the shower shelf. It's innocent enough. It's only a razor, but it makes Sam feel something, something in his gut, something that he can't name.

He reaches for it without thinking, and it feels heavier than it should in his hand. He licks at his lips and then runs his thumb gently over the blades. Not sure what he's really doing, he twists the cheap plastic razor and breaks free the blades. They're tiny and Sam wonders how something so small could have as much power as it does.

Selecting one, he sets the broken pieces down on the shelf. He looks at the little sliver of metal in the light, blinking away the water still running down his face.

Feeling like he's in a trance, he brings the blade down and presses it to his hip. It's tentative at first; he's not afraid of the pain, but maybe more afraid of liking it. And he does. The first pass gives him the relief he has been seeking. It focuses the pain in a way that he can manage.

He cuts again, a little deeper, and the water runs pink. The sight makes him feel sick with himself. He can't believe what he's done, and he drops the blade. It's so small it slips down the drain.

In shock with himself, he turns the water off and gets out. His leg is still bleeding, and he presses the towel to it. It stops bleeding fairly quickly and Sam pauses to examine them. He wonders how something so simple could hold so much emotion, both good and bad.

He finishes toweling off and then slips on his clothes. He still needs to get rid of the towel before Dean gets back. He can't let him know what he's done. He wouldn't understand.

Grabbing the towel, he sneaks out of the room and down to the dumpster. He tosses the towel in and heads back to the room. Just as he closes the door to the room, he hears the rumble of the Impala. He made it just in time.

Dean comes in the room carrying a bag. He sets it down on the table and pauses to look Sam over.

'You still look like shit," he says.

Sam runs a hand through his hair. "Thanks."

"Well now that you smell better, why don't you sit down and eat? I got you some kind of salad. It's got egg on it. Looks nasty, but you'll probably like it."

"Thanks, Dean," he says, and they both know that he means more than for the food.

Sam sits and picks at the salad, shifting the egg to the side. Dean was right. It didn't look that great; in fact, overall it looked pretty bad. The lettuce was wilted and the veggies were soft.

He shifts in his seat and can feel the sting of the cuts on his leg. It feels surprisingly good, comforting even.

Sighing, he pushes the tray away and opens the bottle of water Dean had brought him. He takes a sip.

"You're not eating." Dean points to his tray with his fork.

Sam shrugs. Even if the food wasn't bad, he's not sure he could eat. His stomach was still in knots over what had happened. He wonders how Dean is able to do it, put it all behind him like it hadn't happened. It was just another way he was letting him down. He shouldn't let this get the better of him.

"Sammy?" Dean asks, making him look up. "I said you're not eating. Is there a reason?"

Sam shakes his head. "No, I'm just not that hungry."

Dean studies him for a second, and Sam wonders if he is going to say something about the elephant in the room, but he doesn't. He just nods and goes back to his food.

Sam excuses himself from the table. "I'm going out."

"Where?"

"Just for a walk around the block. I need some air."

"Well wait for me. I'll go with you." Sam knew that Dean wasn't ready to let him out of his sight just yet. He was always like that, even as a kid. If he got hurt, Dean would hover like a mother hen.

Sam swallows, sticking his hands in his pockets. "Yeah, I was thinking alone would be better."

Dean stares at him for a moment, fork stuck in his food. He blinks. "Yeah, fine. Go ahead. Take your phone with you, though."

"Always," Sam says.

Sam grabs his coat and walks out the door. He doesn't care where he goes, but he needs to get away from the room, away from Dean, not because he doesn't love him, but because he does. He can't let him see the hurt, how badly he's fucked up. He needs to protect him from any more pain.

With each step, he feels the cuts rub against the denim of his jeans and he focuses on it, pushing himself forward. He needs more and it scares him.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN:**A special thanks to kazluvsbooks for prereading.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing and no copyright infringement intended.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

It takes two days for the cuts to heal enough that they don't sting anymore. In a way, Sam is both relieved to have them fading but also disappointed. There was something oddly comforting about knowing that they were there, fresh and painful.

Sam flips his laptop closed and leans back in his chair. Dean is still out, grabbing breakfast and getting a paper. Dean doesn't take long, and a few minutes later, the door is squeaking open and Dean is walking in, carrying a paper bag.

He looks at Sam, studying him for a moment. It's a look that says 'are you all right,' a look that makes Sam squirm a bit and want to hide. He wants this to be behind them, but it doesn't seem like Dean is going to let it go, and that worries Sam. Because he's not sure how much more of this babying he can take.

Dean puts the food down on the table and tears into the bag.

"I didn't know what you wanted, so you got pancakes," Dean says, pulling a Styrofoam takeout box from the bag. "Here you go." He sets the food down across the table from him and then tosses a plastic fork in Sam's direction.

Sam catches the fork and walks over to the table, taking a seat. Dean shakes the newspaper open and lays it out on the table, pointing to the bottom of the front page. "Father sliced and diced his family, but he didn't kill himself. Seems a bit suspicious if you ask me."

"Huh," Sam says, poking at his food.

Dean looks up at him. "That's all you're going to say?"

"What do you want me to say? I'm not sure it's our kind of thing."

"When have you ever not wanted to investigate?"

"I'm not saying that," Sam says with sigh. "Just … never mind. We can go check it out if you want."

And they do. It's bloody and gruesome, and it only takes a quick walk through the scene to know that this wasn't just a murder, or at least they don't want to believe that it was. The scene is beyond grisly and to think a human would do this of their own accord is a frightening thought.

Just as they're about to leave, they hear something moving on the second floor. Slowly, they make their way toward the sound. Dean reaches in his jacket and pulls out his knife. He grabs Sam and pulls him back behind him. Sam rolls his eyes but goes along with it. He knows Dean is still in his mother hen mode.

When they reach the top of the stairs, Dean puts up a hand to stop Sam.

"Listen," he says.

Sam tilts his head to the side and hears what sounds like a child singing. It's coming from one of the rooms up ahead.

Very slowly, they creep down the hall. Sam's trying to keep his mind focused on the job, but it's hard. The way Dean's treating him, like he thinks he going to break at any moment, is only reminding him of the things he wants to forget, and for a moment, he can feel the cold hands of the man on him again.

"Stay here," Dean says, looking back at Sam. "I'm gonna go take a look."

"Dean, I can go—"

"That's an order, Sam."

Sam's sighs. "Whatever."

Sam watches as Dean goes up the door and opens it. He pauses in the doorway for a moment, and then turns and runs out, shouting, "Run."

He grabs a stunned Sam and pushes him along down the steps in front of him. "Go, go, go, go, go."

Sam picks up the pace and heads for the door, Dean hot on his heels. They charge out of the house and only stop once they reach the car.

Sam runs hand through his hair, panting for breath. "What the hell was that about?"

Dean's chest is heaving and he bends over, resting his hands on his knees. He looks up at Sam. "Evil, evil, little boy."

Sam raises a brow. "Evil little boy?"

"Yeah. Ghost. It charged me, all right? And it had a fucking cleaver."

"So we should probably head back and do some research then," Sam says flatly.

"Yeah, you think?"

When they get back to the motel, it's late afternoon. Sam goes to his laptop and starts researching what he can on the house and the family that was slaughtered. It doesn't take long to pull up an old newspaper article about a little boy that was killed there; unsurprisingly, he, his mother, and sister died together as well. All of them knife wounds. It was vague on the exact details, but Sam's willing to go out on a limb and say the little boy was somehow directly related given he was sporting the cleaver.

After a bit more looking, Sam finds where the family was buried. It is nearby and will make the salt and burn easy enough. Once night comes, they pack what they need and drive down to the cemetery. It takes a few hours, but they get it done. They even go as far as to salt and burn the mom and sister just in case.

When they get back to the hotel, they're both exhausted, but Dean doesn't settle in. Instead, he stands, hands in his pockets, watching Sam as he takes off his boots.

Sam glances up through his hair and looks at Dean. He's got that face, the one that usually precursors a talk he doesn't want to have.

"How are you really, Sam? And don't say fine," Dean says.

Shrugging, Sam looks up. "I'm good."

"Really?" Dean doesn't look like he believes him one bit and it makes Sam swallow hard.

"Yes, really, okay?" Sam says, running a hand through his hair. "It happened a long time ago, Dean. I've put it behind me."

"It didn't seem like that the other day."

Sam draws a breath and lets it out slowly. "Look, I'm good now. I've got everything under control."

He's lying through his teeth, and he's pretty sure that Dean knows it.

Dean crosses his arms over his chest. "You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. You don't need to worry," Sam says, and it's not a complete lie.

"Good. I'm going to hit the shower and head to bed."

Dean grabs his duffel and pulls out a pair of sweats and a t-shirt along with his toiletries and he heads into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

As soon as Sam hears the water start, he gets up and walks over to the table, grabbing his bag from the chair. The talk with Dean has stirred up the old memories again and he needs to find a way to push them down.

He looks over his shoulder, checking again that the bathroom door is still shut. The water is still running in the bathroom, and he knows he has only a few minutes to act. He quickly undoes his jeans and slips them down a little, exposing the two lines from earlier.

Hesitantly, he lifts his boxers up a little to expose his thigh. Moving carefully, he takes the knife and presses it to his skin, just above the last cuts. It feels better than it should and he closes his eyes, sighing as the stinging pain takes hold. He revels in the rush of endorphins the pain causes.

The water in the shower turns off and Sam snaps out of the haze. He quickly redoes his pants and tosses the knife back into his bag. He hurries back over to the bed, grabbing his laptop as he does. He takes a seat, pretending to have been doing some research.

Dean steps out of the bathroom a moment later and walks into the room.

Sam feels a damp spot forming on his leg and he shifts the laptop to look. There is blood, more blood than he can hide easily. His heart pounds and he licks at his lips, trying not to panic. He can't let Dean know. He'll only be even more disappointed in him.

He moves the laptop to cover the spot.

Dean looks at him curiously. "You're pale," he says. "You sure you're feeling all right?"

Sam shrugs a shoulder. "I'm just tired. I think I'm going to hit the sack."

"Well, you should probably take a shower first. You've got bits of cemetery in your hair."

Sam muscles go tight. Dean is looking at him expectantly, and he has no idea how to respond. He can't get up without Dean seeing the blood. He's trapped.

"Yeah, umm … could you do me a favor, though?" Sam asks.

Dean's brow furrows. "I don't know, maybe. Why? What's up?"

"Can you go out to the car and grab the Advil?"

"Headache?"

"My back's a little sore from all the digging tonight."

Dean sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. "You suck, you know that right?"

Sam smiles. "Thank, Dean."

"You owe me." Dean goes and slips his bare feet into his boots. "Be right back."

As soon as the door clicks closed, Sam makes a beeline for the bathroom. He quickly strips out of his jeans and looks at the cut and it's just beginning to clot. He curses himself for being so stupid.

He shouldn't have done it and now he can't take it back. It's like he's losing control and it scares him.

The front door slams closed and then there is a knock at the bathroom door. "I got the Advil. I'll leave it on the nightstand. Oh, and your razor is busted, not sure what happened to it, but I left mine on the counter if you need it."

Sam looks into the shower and sees the pieces of the razor he'd broken sitting on the shelf. He curses himself for not taking better care to clean up. He had been so lost in the moment, so frightened of what he'd done, he hadn't thought to throw it away.

He looks at Dean's razor, picks it up and turns it in his hand. He could never use Dean's razor, not for cutting. He puts it back where he found it and sighs. He looks at himself in the mirror. Dean is right, he has dirt in his hair and his face is grimy. He really does need a shower.

He reaches over and turns of the shower, letting it build up to the highest heat it can.

Stepping in, he cringes. It's so hot it hurts but he ducks his head anyway and lets the water wash over him. Some of the stress leaves him and he relaxes.

After a few minutes, he shuts the water off and towels dry. And then he realizes his mistake. In his haste to escape to the bathroom, he hadn't thought to grab anything to wear. Cursing under his breath, he wraps the towel around his waist, making sure it covers his leg and opens the door. The TV is on, but it looks like Dean is asleep. He tiptoes out of the bathroom and over to the bed.

He digs through his bag and grabs his sweats. He keeps an eye on Dean the whole time he's getting dressed, but thankfully he never sees him wake.


	4. Chapter 4

******AN:** A special thanks to kazluvsbooks for prereading**.  
****Disclaimer:** I own nothing and no copyright infringement intended.**  
**

* * *

**Chapter Four**

Sam opens the door of the impala and gets out. They're back at the motel after a long day of hunting. Dean is right behind him as he heads for the room.

"You were such a bitch back there," Dean says between laughs.

Sam smiles and gives his shoulder a shove. "Hey, if I remember right, you were the one that was screaming like a little girl. You practically jumped into my arms when that shadow moved."

"It was a creepy shadow, Sam," Deans says. "Who knows what it was thinking."

Sam shakes his head and laughs. "I'm pretty sure shadows don't think."

"Whatever. It moved on its own. That's enough for me."

When they get to the room, Sam unlocks the door and walks inside. He strips off his coat and tosses it on the bed.

"God, I can't wait until I can take a shower," Dean says, bending down to undo his boots.

"Yeah, that sewer wasn't exactly clean."

"You're telling me. I fell in that dank ass water, remember?"

"How could I forget? You dragged me down with you."

Dean laughs and kicks his boots under the table. "So who's got dibs on the shower first?"

"You can go. I'll clean the weapons."

"Go ahead, but leave my knife alone. I don't like the angle you put on it last time."

Sam waves him off and walks over to the duffel. He grabs what he needs and sits down at the table. He begins to clean the blade. The hunt had dragged them through the sewers, and more than once, they had taken a dip in the foul water.

Sam begins to sharpen the knife. By the time he's done, the water is shutting off in the shower, and shortly after, the bathroom door swings open.

"It's all yours," Dean steps out, towel wrapped around his waist.

"Thanks," Sam says as he goes to retrieve his bag of toiletries and a pair of sweats.

He steps into the bathroom and closes the door, quietly turning the lock behind him. He still worries about Dean finding him, even after all this time. It's been a month since he first broke apart that razor to get to the blade, and in that month, he has learned a lot.

Stripping off his pants and shirt, he tosses them in a pile on the floor. He reaches in his bag of supplies and pulls out a small pocket knife. He pulls the blade out and looks at it glint in the light. He's been waiting all day for this moment.

His hand doesn't tremble like it did the first few times; it's practiced now. He slides off his boxers and exposes his leg. There are rows of cuts, some old, some new, but all of them are neatly spaced. He places the knife beside the newest and makes a cut. Immediately, he feels the rush of endorphins and he relaxes. He watches with fascination as the blood bubbles up from the cut and begins to drip down his leg.

Some days he needs more than one, but today wasn't too bad and one will do just fine. He folds the knife back up and sticks it back in his bag.

He turns on the water and steps into the shower. The blood gets washed away in swirls of pink down the drain.

When he's done washing, he checks the cut, making sure the bleeding has stopped, which it has. It's now just a deep red line amongst the others.

He gets dressed and grabs his bag and heads back to the room. Dean is lying on the bed watching something that sounds suspiciously like porn.

"Dude, we talked about this," Sam says, walking by the TV.

Dean sighs and reaches for the remote. "Whatever, you were in the shower."

"Yeah, and I was coming back out, thanks."

Dean rolls his eyes. "So, I say we stick around here for a few days. What do you think?"

Sam shrugs. "Sounds good to me. I could use a break."

"Good. I'm going to head out to the bar then since you put the kibosh on my Asian beauties marathon. A man has needs, something you wouldn't know much about."

Sam flips him off as he goes and gets his laptop from the table. "Try not to land on me when you get home. Remember, your bed's on the right."

"I did that one time," Dean says, grabbing his coat.

"One time too many." Sam takes his laptop over to the bed and settles in. "I'll keep my phone on. Call me if you need a ride."

"Bar's close enough. I can walk," Dean says as he heads out the door. "Oh, and Sam, keep the door locked."

Sam waves him off. "I think I can handle being alone for a few hours, dad."

Once alone, Sam hurries off to the bathroom to gather the dirty laundry. He couldn't risk Dean catching sight of the blood stains on his boxers. They were faint, but Dean wouldn't miss them if he caught a glimpse.

He tucks the laundry into the bag and cinches it closed. He sets it in the corner of the room by the table to take to the Laundromat in the morning.

He goes over to the bed and lies back against the headboard. He scrubs a hand over his face. He feels so empty inside, so incredibly lost and alone. He feels like the world's worst little brother, lying to Dean's face every day, but what other choice does he have? He can't tell him how he's coping. He wouldn't understand. He would try to make him stop, and that idea scares him more than it should.

It's the only way he has of coping with the box of nightmares that has been opened. All he can think about is that day when he confessed to Dean. It was like that moment made it all real, like up until then it was just a nightmare, something his mind had conjured up, something he could dismiss as make believe.

The memories begin to creep in around the edges of mind, and he shivers, not liking what his mind is showing him. He brings his hand down to his leg and presses hard against the cut. There is a stabbing pain, and he grits his teeth through it. He doesn't care if it bleeds a little, as long as there is pain. Because the pain is real and pulls him back just like Dean said it would, just like he promised.

Standing, he turns of the light and pulls back the covers, climbing into bed.

He wakes up sometime later with a start when a clamoring Dean comes stumbling into the room. He's so drunk he can barely stand. Sam shakes his head. He hasn't seen Dean this far gone in a while.

Sam watches as Dean wanders into the room. He doesn't close the door behind him, so Sam gets up to shut and lock it. This is not how he wanted to spend his night, taking care of a wasted Dean.

He stumbles forward and crashes hard into the chair at the table. Sam sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He walks over to Dean and guides him toward the bed. Once they reach the it, Sam gives him a shove, knocking him backwards onto the bed.

"Stay," Sam says as he bends down to undo his boots.

Dean looks up and laughs. "Sam," Dean says.

"What?"

"I think I'm drunk."

"Yes, you are. Now shut up and roll over so I can cover you up."

Dean laughs, trying to push his way to sit. Then suddenly his laughs die off and his face goes serious.

"What's that?" Dean asks, nodding his head toward Sam.

Sam frowns, looking around for whatever it was that had caught Dean's eye. He doesn't see anything so he asks, "What's what?"

"There," he says, pointing a finger right into the spot where the cut lay. "Why you bleeding?"

Sam looks down and sees what Dean is talking about. The cut's bled through. It feels like gravity has shifted, and it makes Sam's stomach lurch. He swallows hard, trying to think of something to say, anything to cover up the truth.

"It's nothing. I just banged it on the counter in the bathroom. The edge is sharper than it looks." It's a shitty lie and he knows it. He can only hope that Dean will buy it.

Dean looks puzzled and his eyes track to the bathroom and then back to Sam, like he's trying to piece together the validity of the story. Finally, Dean blinks and then nods. "Well, be more careful."

Sam breathes a sigh of relief. It seems like Dean is buying it for now.

Sam tucks him into bed and then steps back looking over his brother. He's sprawled out spread eagle, snoring softly with the blanket half covering his legs.

Sam can only hope that Dean will forget about all this by morning. Because there was no way a sober Dean will believe a counter cut his leg.

When Sam does go to bed, he sleeps fitfully, constantly waking with the fear that Dean has found him out.

When morning comes, he's more tired than usual but marks it off to the poor sleep. He gets up and looks over at Dean, who is still asleep, drooling on his pillow.

Sam smiles at him and then walks over to the table and starts a pot of coffee. Dean is going to need it when he wakes.

Coffee brewing, Sam grabs his clothes for the day and goes to change. Out of habit, he inspects the cuts as he dresses. They all look okay, except for the most recent one. It's redder than the others and burns when he touches it. He wonders if he may have cut too deep.

He finishes dressing and then goes out to put on his boots. He still needs to run to the Laundromat as they're running out of things to where, that and he doesn't want bloody clothes hanging out any longer than necessary.

It takes him an hour and a half to finish the laundry, and when he gets back, he's anxious. He has no idea what he's going to face when he opens the door. He has no idea if Dean suspects anything. The idea his secret could be exposed terrifies him beyond belief.

Taking one last steadying breath, Sam reaches for the handle. It doesn't even turn all the way before it is being pulled open from the other side.

"Where the hell have you been?" an angry Dean asks, looking him over head to toe. "You didn't take your phone."

"I see you've finally decided to join the living." Sam lifts the laundry bag, showing Dean. "I thought you'd appreciate having some clean clothes to wear."

Sam hauls the bag into the room and tosses it onto the floor. He watches Dean as he pulls his clothes from the bag.

"So, about last night …" Sam says casually, testing the waters.

Dean frowns, looking confused. "Dude, the last thing I remember was the little blonde waitress at the bar. After that, things get fuzzy."

Sam lets out the breath he didn't realize he was holding.

Dean's eyes narrow. "Why? Did I do something stupid?"

Sam shrugs "No, nothing more than usual."

"Well, that's reassuring," Dean says, walking over and putting the now clean clothes into his duffel.

A shiver passes through Sam and Dean notices. He looks at him curiously. "Cold?"

"Yeah, it's freezing in here."

"No, it's like eighty in here," Dean says, his face going serious. He walks over and presses a hand to Sam's forehead. Sam tries to pull away, but Dean is persistent.

Dropping his hand, Dean frowns. "You're a little warm."

"I'm not sick, so don't even start."

Dean scoffs. "I think I know you well enough to know when you're coming down with something."

Sam rolls his eyes and then yawns, ignoring him. "I'm think I'm gonna hit the sack. I slept like shit last night."

"That's because you're sick," Dean says, pointing at him. "While you get your beauty sleep, I'm going to head out to the diner and grab us some food. You want me to stop by the pharmacy on the way back, grab you something for your cold?"

Sam shrugs. "Do what you want."

"I'll take that as a yes," Dean says as he grabs his coat. "I'll be back soon. Oh, and try not to spread your germs all over the place while I'm gone. We both don't need to get sick."

Dean heads out the door and Sam sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. He really is starting to feel like shit. He makes his way over to the bed and lies down. Throwing an arm over his eyes, he tries to block out the way the room feels like it's spinning.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN:** A special thanks to kazluvsbooks for prereading and for making the wonderful banner!  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing and no copyright infringement intended.

* * *

Chapter 5

Dean knows that something isn't right. He can feel it in his gut; Sam is hiding something from him. Dean knows his fake smiles all too well, and he can spot a lie a mile away and that is something that Sam's been doing a lot of lately.

Sometimes it feels like Sam has gotten over it already, while Dean is still breaking apart on the inside. Someone touched his baby brother, a touch he can never erase, and it's his fault. He should have been there; he should have seen the signs. Looking back now, he can see how the pieces of the puzzle fit together, the way Sam stayed to himself for days, the way he didn't talk to anyone, even him. It was all there right in front of him, and he missed it. His chest goes tight every time he thinks of Sammy going through it all alone.

Dean pulls into the diner and gets out. He goes in and looks over the menu. They don't have much to pick from, and with Sam feeling under the weather, he wants to get him something light. He settles for soup.

While he's there, he asks the waitress where he can find the nearest pharmacy. She gives him directions and he heads out, taking the paper sack full of food with him.

He stops at the pharmacy and grabs Sam's Dayquil on the way back, along with a few other Sick Sammy essentials like cough drops and orange juice.

When he arrives back at the motel, he shifts the car into park and takes a moment to collect himself before going inside. The stress of watching Sam pretend he's all right is killing him more than if he would just fall apart. At least then he would be able to help.

He carries the bags in and puts them on the table. He looks over at the bed and sees Sam is sound asleep. The poor kid really was tired.

Dean unpacks the bags and grabs the soup. It's lukewarm now, so he sticks it in the microwave. While he waits for it to beep, he watches Sam. He's squirming in his sleep and Dean knows it's probably a nightmare. Sammy always gets them when he is sick.

The microwave beeps and Dean grabs a spoon and walks over to Sam. He sets the soup down on the nightstand and sits down on the edge of the bed.

He brushes a hand through his brother's hair. It's damp with sweat. Dean frowns and places a palm to his forehead. He's still warm. Whether Sam wants to admit it or not, he's sick.

He nudges Sam gently on the shoulder.

"Hey, Sam," Dean says. "Time to wake up."

Sam grumbles, and then his eyes flutter open. "I feel like I'm dying," he groans.

"There's the drama queen I know and love," Dean says. "I brought you some soup, but first I think you should take a shot of Dayquil. You look like shit."

Dean gets up and crosses the room to the table and grabs the medicine from the bag. He measures out a dose in the cup and brings it over to Sam.

Sam's already drifting back to sleep, so Dean nudges the bed with his knee. "Hey there, sunshine, time to take your medicine."

Sam blinks tiredly and stretches. He winces like he's in pain, and Dean realizes that the poor kid's head is probably pounding.

Dean hands Sam the tiny cup, and Sam kicks it back with a grimace. He shivers. "Tastes awful."

"I brought you soup," Dean says, reaching over and grabbing the cup.

Sam shakes his head. "Not right now."

Dean sighs and sets it back down on the nightstand. "You're such a pain in the ass when you're sick."

"Just need to sleep it off," Sam says tiredly as he closes his eyes again. "Wake me up in a few hours."

Dean sighs. "No problem, princess."

Dean gets up and goes over to his bed. He grabs the remote and flips the TV on. He considers his options, but decides against porn. His luck Sam would wake up and find him … well, they've talked about that.

A few hours later, Dean gets up and checks on Sam. He goes over and sits on the edge of the bed. He presses a hand to Sam's head. It's about the same temp as it was before.

Sam stirs and his brow wrinkles. "Go away."

Dean shakes his head. "You asked me to wake you up, remember?"

Sam grunts something that sounds like fuck off and Dean chuckles. A sick Sam has always been a grouchy Sam. Some things never change.

Over the next day and a half, Sam manages to drive Dean insane. He is whiny and irritable, demanding to be left alone one minute and whiny that he needs something the next. The Dayquil has done shit for his fever, and it's making him impossible to deal with. Eventually, Dean has to make another trip to the pharmacy to get some new meds. He hates to leave Sam alone, but he knows he won't be long.

When Dean gets back, Sam is sound asleep, not really a surprise given how miserable he's been.

He walks over to the bed as he struggles with the blister pack of pills, trying to tear the little plastic package open with his teeth.

He finally gets the package to open, and he shakes the pills out into his hand. He sits down on the edge of the bed. His hand immediately finds its way to Sam's forehead, checking his temp. Dean curses under his breath. He's hot, way too hot. He pulls his hand away and sighs. He's needs to get Sam awake and cooled off.

He gives Sam a shake. "Hey, time to wake up."

Sam's brows pinch together. "What time is it?"

"Late afternoon."

"Shit." Sam tries to push himself up to sit but nearly falls back to the bed.

"Easy there," Dean says, putting a hand on his chest. "You're burning up."

Sam groans and his eyes slip closed again.

"You can't go back to sleep yet. Your temp's too high. We've got to get it down."

Dean knew what he had to do. Ever since Sam was a kid, when he got sick, he would get really sick. And if he had a fever, if would usually get high enough that he would need a lukewarm bath to bring it down.

Sam eyes blink open, and he tries to wearily push himself to sit. Dean slips an arm under him and helps him up. "Take it easy," Dean says. "Nice and slow."

Once he's sitting, Sam tries to push Dean away. "Don't need your help."

Dean shakes his head. "Yes, you do."

Sam pushes off Dean's arm and tries to stand. He wobbles and looks like he's about to fall at any moment. Dean quickly stands and then reaches out to catch him.

"Don't need help my ass," Dean says, grunting as he takes some of Sam's weight. "Come on. Shower time."

Sam tries to pull away again. "I don't need your help."

Dean tilts his head to the side, grabbing Sam a bit more firmly. "Yes, you really do. You'll end up falling and slamming your thick skull against the floor. Excuse me if I don't want to mop up your blood."

"I'm fine," Sam says, straightening up, trying to keep his balance. "I'm good. I don't need a shower."

Dean wonders just who he's trying to convince.

"Look, you're getting in the shower whether you like it or not," Dean says firmly, leaving no room for argument. "I can either help you or I can drag you, but your fever needs to be brought down."

Sam looks like he's gone impossibly pale. His hands twitch at his sides, and for a moment, Dean thinks he's going to try and bolt.

He advances on Sam, who quickly stumbles back.

"Please, Dean," Sam begs, and it is so unexpected that it makes Dean stop for a moment. "Let me do this alone."

"Sam, you can barely stand."

Sam wipes his brow and licks at his lips. He swallows, eyes flicking around the room. "Just … just help me to the bathroom and I can take it from there."

Dean nods. "Sure, Sam. Whatever you want. Let's just get that fever down." Dean has no intention of leaving him alone in the shower, but he's willing to say whatever he has to in order to get him into the bathroom.

Dean walks over to him, keeping an arm around Sam's waist as he makes his way to the bathroom. He can practically feel the heat radiating off him.

When they get there, Sam walks over to the toilet and sits, resting his head in his hands.

Dean starts the shower, setting the temp just shy of warm and then turns his attention back to Sam.

"All Right, it's tubby time, big boy."

Sam lifts his head from his heads and looks at Dean with wide eyes.

"Don't look at me like that. You need to cool off and this is the best way."

"I thought you were leaving?"

Dean shrugs. "Sorry, but I can't leave you in here alone."

Sam's face goes impossibly pale, and he pushes himself up. He wobbles on his feet, trying to push past Dean.

Dean easily stops him. "Just calm down. It's not like I'm going to see anything I haven't already seen a million times before."

Sam brings a shaky hand up and rubs at the back of neck. "You gotta let me out of here."

"No can do, Sam," Dean says.

Sam draws a breath and clenches his fists. Dean wonders if he is about to be hit.

"Look, Sammy. You're sick. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Let me help you."

Dean reaches for Sam's shirt, and then Sam snaps. He shoves Dean away hard and Dean stumbles back, not expecting the blow. He quickly gets his feet back under him and turns to Sam. He tilts his head to the side. "Sam, sick or not, I will still kick your ass."

Sam seems to go even paler and his breathing picks up. He's practically panting, his hands balled in fists. "Please, Dean. Please, don't so this."

Dean doesn't even bother to consider other options. It's clear Sam is hiding something and he's close to finding out what.

"What is it you don't want me to see?" Dean asks, stepping closer. "Because it sure as hell isn't your dick because I've seen that."

Sam averts his gaze and rubs his palms nervously against his pants.

"Did you get hurt on the last hunt?"

Sam licks his lips and looks past Dean, watching the door like he is going to bolt for it at any moment.

"All right, Sam. You don't want to talk, then strip. Everything off. I'll check you myself."

"Dean, please. I'll get in the shower. Just wait outside."

"No," Dean crosses his arms over his chest.

Dean has no idea what's going on and it worries him. He's never seen Sam act this way.

"You can either get stripping or I swear I will knock you on your ass and do it myself."

Sam looks like he's about to cry, and for a second, it makes Dean's resolve waver. He doesn't want his brother to hurt, but he can't let this go. Not this time.

Sam grabs the hem of his shirt and slowly peels it away. Dean's sharp eyes check him over as his skin is revealed.

Once off, Sam tosses the shirt on the floor and faces Dean. He's shaking now and Dean doesn't know whether it's the fever or if he's that afraid of Dean finding whatever it is he's hiding.

"Turn around. Let me see your back."

Sam turns, keeping a hand on the counter for balance, and Dean steps forward. He gently touches Sam's ribs and pokes around, watching for any signs of pain. There is none.

Dean steps back. "All right, drop 'em." He motions to the pants.

Sam shakes his head, tears brimming in his eyes. "Please, just let this go."

"Pants, now."

Sam draws a shaky breath. He looks so weak and tired that Dean wants nothing more than to tell him it's okay and just let this all go, but he knows he can't.

Slowly, Sam's hands make their way to the waistband of his sweats. He closes his eyes as he pushes them down.

Dean wonders what could be so bad, and then he sees it. The blood on his boxers. It's faint, though. Just a stain. It can't be the cause for all this.

Dean takes a breath and squats down in front of Sam. He lifts the leg of the boxer and exposes what he thinks is a scratch from their hunt. But he's wrong. So wrong it hurts.

There are lines of cuts, rows that could only been made by a steady hand. Some of them are old and scarring, other are pink and a bit raw. He pushes the fabric up higher and exposes a deep red gash. It's clearly infected. There are red streaks reaching out from the wound. His heart skips a beat.

Dean's hands clench into fists. "Tell me, Sam, did you use my knife? Did you use my razor?" Dean asks, anger coloring his tone. Sam stays silent. "Answer me dammit!"

He looks up at Sam in time to see a tear roll down his cheek.

"Sorry," Sam whispers as he presses a hand against wall. He's shaking again, and before Dean can react, Sam's legs give out. He collapses to the floor before Dean can catch him.

"Sam," Dean says his name, bending down to brush the hair out of his face. His face is flushed and his breathing shallow. He presses his fingers to Sam's throat, checking his pulse. It's too fast. Panic begins to set in and he rubs his knuckles against his sternum, trying to rouse him, but he doesn't even twitch.

"Sam?" Dean cups his face, squeezing his cheeks. "Sammy!" Dean pleads as he digs his phone from his pocket. "You hang on. You hear me? Hang on."


	6. Chapter 6

**AN:** A special thanks to kazluvsbooks for prereading and for making the wonderful banner!  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing and no copyright infringement intended.

* * *

Chapter 6

The first thing Sam senses is the heaviness of his limbs. It's like he can feel gravity pulling him down, and he's too weak to fight it. He wants to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel like they're weighted with lead.

Eventually the haze begins to clear from his mind and Sam is able to force his eyes open. He blinks wearily, trying to make out his surroundings.

Turning his head is a fight, but he manages. The room is small and dark, but the door is open enough to let a little sliver of light pass through. It's just enough to see by.

He takes a stuttering breath, already feeling the exhaustion creeping back in. He tries to shift his body and feels something against his arm; it itches and pulls. He bends his head to take a look. There is an IV tube taped to him. He groans and lets his head fall back to the pillow. Hospital then, he thinks.

There is a soft snuffling sound to his right, and he looks over. Dean is curled up in the chair asleep, arms wrapped around his knees, head flopped forward against his chest.

Slowly, his mind begins to catch up with him, and bits and pieces of why he's there come trickling back, the fever, the bathroom, Dean's shocked face, the disappointment and anger in his eyes. As soon as he remembers, he wishes to forget. It's all too much.

"Dean." Sam tries to get his attention. His voice is raspy, though. It makes his throat hurt, and he winces.

Dean snuffles and then straightens up, stretching his arms out behind him.

"Dean," Sam says again. This time Dean hears him and his gaze snaps to him.

"Jesus, you're awake." Dean jumps up and comes over to the bed.

"Water?" Sam asks.

Dean nods, and Sam watches as he walks over to the bedside table and pours a cup of water from the pitcher. He walks back over to Sam and hands him the cup.

Sam takes it and drinks greedily. Immediately, it eases the dry feeling in his throat. Sam tries to reach over and set the cup down, but Dean stops him, taking the cup from his hand and setting it down on the nightstand.

"Try not to move around too much," Dean says. "You've been through a lot."

There is a brief silence where they both just stare at one another, neither saying a word. Sam thinks he can see the anger on Dean's face, and it makes his chest hurt. It reminds him of when he first saw the cuts. It's an expression he'll never forget.

"I'm sorry," Sam says after a moment.

Dean looks away. "You should probably go back to sleep. You need the rest."

Sam looks down at his hands. "You're mad." It's not a question. Sam knows him well enough to know when he's angry, even if he's trying to hide it.

"Don't worry about it right now," Dean says. "We can talk about it later."

If Sam could have drowned in the guilt, he would have. He knows he failed his brother and he has no idea how to fix the mess he's in. He wants to make it better, but everything hurts so much he just can't seem to form the right words.

"I'm sorry," he says finally, and he is, more than Dean can ever know.

Dean looks away. "So, I managed a cover story to keep you out of the psych ward," he says, ignoring Sam's apology, and it hurts beyond words.

Sam looks over at him, not sure what to say anymore. "Thanks, I guess."

"No problem," Dean says, walking over to the window, crossing his arms over his chest. "But your infection's another thing. It's going to keep you here for at least another day."

"Oh," Sam says. "How long have I been here?"

"You've been in and out of it for two days now," Dean says coldly.

"I … I didn't … I don't know what to say, Dean."

Dean steps away and walks over to the window, pressing his hand against the glass. He hangs his head. Sam can feel the disappointment rolling off him.

If he could only go back and change things, go back and stop before he made that first cut. His chest tightens and he swallows back the painful lump in his throat. The need to press down on the wound is nearly impossible to overcome. He needs the pain to make this feeling go away, to make it better. He focuses on Dean, trying to block out the thoughts in his head.

"What did I do wrong, Sammy?" Dean whispers finally. "Please tell me what the fuck I did to make you do this?" He looks over his shoulder.

"What? You didn't do anything," Sam says.

Dean turns, pain etched on his features. He shakes his head. "I did something. I fucked up and I know it, Sam. I let him touch you. What kind of brother does that make me?"

It's all becoming too much and the urge to hurt himself is getting too great. He moves to bring a hand to his leg. Just one press, just one stab of pain is all he needs to make hurt disappear.

Dean catches the movement and his face goes tight. "Don't, Sammy," he says, crossing the room. "Hurt me if you need to hurt someone, but not yourself."

"Dean, I need it."

Dean shakes his head. "No, you don't. You have me."

"Dean, please."

"No, I won't stand by and watch you hurt yourself, not like this."

Sam closes his eyes and presses his head back into the pillow. He clenches his hands tightly into fists and lets the nails dig in a little. It's subtle enough that Dean doesn't realize what he's doing.

Dean leaves a while later, says he needs a coffee, but Sam realizes that he just needs to get away. He doesn't blame him for going. It's not like he's very good company.

The room seems quiet without him. Even though they were barely talking, his presence made being there in the bed more bearable. With him gone, he's alone with his thoughts and that scares him.

Deciding that sleep might be best, he draws the blanket up and tries to turn onto his side. It makes his leg ache a little but he's okay with that. In fact, he has to fight the urge to press against it.

He knows it's wrong, he knows that it would be letting Dean down even more, but he can't help it. The emotions are so overpowering. It makes him just want to scream.

He'd spent his life trying to block out the past, trying to forget and now it was all crashing down on him, threatening to sweep him away. The memories make him feel dirty. They make his skin crawl. He shivers as he remembers the cold, foreign touch on his skin. He hates himself for what he let happen, for how he's let it affect him.

Before he realizes he's doing it, he's reaching down and pressing against the cuts. The pain grounds him in a way nothing else can. As soon as he lifts his hand, the guilt washes over him at what he's done. He hasn't just let himself down, but Dean, too. He clenches his hand into a fist and then punches the side rail of the bed. He has to try harder. If not for himself then for Dean.

It takes another day before he's ready to leave the hospital. Dean goes over the instructions with the nurse. She explains in detail how to clean the wound on his leg and what meds to give and when. Dean listens intently and doesn't flirt once, which is a testament to how seriously he's taking it.

When they get back to the motel, Dean grabs the meds and discharge instructions and walks beside Sam as they head inside. He's hovering again, and in a way, though he would never admit it aloud, it makes Sam feel a little less alone.

Once inside, Sam walks over to the bed and sits down. The ride home has taken it out of him and his eyes are already beginning to droop.

Dean tosses the bag of meds down on the table and takes a seat in the chair. Bending down, he starts untying his boots.

Not sure what else to do, Sam watches him, fidgeting with his hands as he does. Things have never been this tense between them before and he doesn't know what he should do or say. He decides it probably best to let Dean take the lead, so he sits quietly and waits for the inevitable conversation to come.

Dean sees him looking and raises his brow. "So, you ready to explain yourself," Dean says, kicking his boots under the table.

Sam takes a breath. "I don't know what to say."

"You don't know what to say? How about starting with what the fuck you were thinking."

Sam looks down at his hands. "You wouldn't understand."

Dean stands and walks over to him, sitting on the bed across from him. "Then explain it to me," Dean says in a tone Sam's not sure he's ever heard. It's soft and full of concern.

"I can't, all right? I don't know how."

"Try, Sam. I don't want to be angry, but I don't understand. You need to explain this to me."

Sam averts his gaze, not able to watch the pain on Dean's face.

"It started back in the warehouse, with Lucifer."

"What does he have to do with this?"

"He doesn't, but what you taught me does." Sam looks back up at Dean whose face is tight with concern. "You showed me real pain, how it's different, how it grounds you."

"Sam, I never meant …" Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. "You weren't supposed to start hurting yourself."

"I didn't mean to, Dean. It just happened. After I told you about what happened, it was like I couldn't get away from it. His touch was everywhere, his voice, his smell. I just needed to get away."

"So you cut yourself," Dean asks.

"Yeah, I cut myself. The first time I used a cheap razor, the one you found in the bathroom."

"You mean the broken one?"

"Yeah," Sam says.

Dean sighs. "I can't believe I didn't see it. I trusted you, Sammy."

"I know, and I'm sorry." He hates that he's let him down.

Dean leans his forearms on his knees and looks up. "So how are we going to fix this?"

"I don't know." And Sam really doesn't. He can't imagine a life without cutting now, without the pain, but he knows he needs to find another way.

"I can't watch you every minute, and I can't trust you. I don't know what to do."

Sam can feel the tears beginning to prick at the corners of his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"We're brothers, man. You should have come to me."

Dean is right. Just like he's right about everything. He should have come to him. It was just another failure to stack on the pile he already had.

Dean raises his brow. "I don't suppose that if I ask nicely you'll stop?"

"I want to," Sam confesses because he can't watch Dean break apart any more than he already is. "I just don't know if I can."

Dean looks down at his hands. He looks defeated.

"What are we gonna to do, Sammy?"

"I don't know, Dean," Sam says. "I really don't know."


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing and no copyright infringement intended.

**AN:** Sorry I haven't had a chance to reply to comments before posting this. I did read and love every one of them. Thank you guys. You're the best. Also, thanks to Kazluvsbooks for prereading.

* * *

**Chapter 7**

Dean sighs and walks over to the table to grab the bottle of whiskey. He takes a long pull and swallows it back was a grimace. Sam has been asleep for an hour now, and Dean knows he needs to move soon if his plan is going to work. Sam doesn't need to know what he's doing. He doesn't need Sammy to know how little he trusts him.

Dean sets the bottle down on the table and walks over toward the bathroom. He grabs the small wastebasket on his way. When he gets in there, he begins stripping the room of anything sharp, anything Sam could hurt himself with. The razors, the scissors, even the nail clippers, they all go. Once the bathroom is clear, he walks over to the kitchenette and repeats the process, leaving nothing behind that Sam could easily use. He even tosses the plastic knives from their take out the night before. Part of him knows that it's futile, that Sam is a seasoned hunter who could find a way, but he doesn't care. He needs to feel like he's doing something.

Once the room is clear, he goes over to the corner and grabs Sam's duffel. He picks it up and carries it over to the table. Piece by piece, he takes it apart. Eventually, he comes across a small bag that he knows to be Sam's toiletries. He opens the bag and dumps the contents out onto the table. There are various things, but what hits him like a punch to the gut is the knife. It's the pocket knife he'd given Sam for his eighth birthday, the same knife they had carved their initials into car with. It makes him sick to think of Sammy using it to carve himself. Unable to bear to throwing it away, he tucks it into his pocket, hoping that someday he could give it back to his brother.

He ties the trash bag up and walks it out the door, setting it down outside for housekeeping to take away. When he goes back in, he sits down at the table and grabs the bottle of whiskey again, taking another sip.

He looks at his brother and sighs. He's a mess, they both are. He wants to help Sam but he just doesn't know how.

Dean takes another slug of whiskey and swallows it down.

Sam begins to stir and Dean sets the bottle down. He's beginning to feel the warmth of the alcohol spreading through him, and it settles his nerves a little.

Sam makes a noise close to a whimper, and he knows he's having a nightmare.

He walks over to the bed and gives his brother a gentle nudge.

Sam wakes with a start, looking around wildly for a second before his gaze falls to Dean.

"Dean?" he asks.

"Right here, Sam."

Dean sits down on the edge of the bed, and Sam pushes himself up to sit against the headboard.

"You okay now?" Dean asks.

Sam runs a hand through his hair. "I'm all right, I guess."

Dean nods. "Good, how's the leg? Does it hurt at all?"

Sam looks down at his leg and his hand moves toward it. "It's fine."

Dean sighs. "We aren't going to get anywhere if you don't start telling me the truth."

Sam blinks, his hand rubbing the spot on his leg where the latest cut lies. "It aches, but I can handle it."

Dean nods and gets up, going over to the table. He grabs the bag of meds. He digs through them until he find the bottle he's looking for, and then he walks over to the fridge and grabs a bottle of water.

He walks back over to the bed and sits back down. He shakes two pills out into his hand and passes them to Sam. "Here, take these," he says, then hands him the water.

"What are they?" Sam asks, looking them over.

"They're for pain."

Sam looks at Dean and then back to the pills. "I don't—"

"Take them, Sammy. That's an order."

Sam hesitates for a second but then brings the pills to his mouth and swallows them down with a sip of water.

"You'll be due for antibiotics in a few hours. Why don't you try and sleep till then?" Dean gets up and walks back over to the table, putting the bottle of pills on the table. He grabs the bottle of whiskey and takes another drink.

When he looks over at Sam again, he can tell something is wrong. Sam's hands are clenching and unclenching at his sides.

"Dean?" Sam says finally.

"Yeah," Dean says. "What's up?" He eyes Sam subtle movements, the twitchy hands. He knows something big is brewing beneath the surface.

"I … I uh … never mind. It's no big deal."

Dean's brows knit together in concern. Sam looks like he about to either cry or fight. He's seen the same look before.

Dean sets the bottle down. "What's going on, Sam?"

Sam shakes his head. "It's nothing."

"No, it's something. You can talk to me. Tell me what's going on."

Sam closes his eyes and draws a shaky breath. "I want to … I need to … you know." He tips his head toward his leg and Dean gets the message.

"Like now?" Dean asks, not sure what else to say.

"Yeah, like now."

"Shit," Dean says. He has no idea what he's supposed to do.

Sam bites at his lip and looks away. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told you."

"No, you're right to tell me. I just don't know what to say. Do you want to talk about it? Do you want a hug?" Dean says. "Whatever you need, man. Just tell me."

Sam swallows hard. "I just … I've been thinking."

"Okay," Dean nods for him to continue.

"I was thinking about all the other kids, the ones he could have hurt because of me, because I didn't stop him."

Dean closes his eyes for a moment. "Sammy, don't do this to yourself."

"But I'm right, aren't I?" he asks. "All these years I pretended it didn't happen. I let him get away with it. Who knows how many have been hurt because of me."

Dean knew he was right. If Sammy had said something, he and dad would have ended that bastard then and there. He would have never touched another kid. Mercy would not have been an option.

"You were just a kid, Sam."

"I wasn't a normal kid though, was I?" he says.

"Listen to me, Sammy. This wasn't your fault. None of this is."

Sam shakes his head. "I can't believe that, Dean."

"Look, Sam, we can still do something. We can try to find him now."

"How Dean? It's been years."

"We've gone on less before. We can start once you are feeling better."

Sam is quiet for a moment. "Will you stop me if I try to kill him?" Sam asks.

"I don't know. Do you want me to?"

Sam meets his gaze. "I don't know."

"Well we'll have to cross that bridge when we come to it," Dean says.

And in truth, Dean knew that if they found him that Sam wasn't going to get the option because Dean was going to gut him alive. He was going to slice into him in every way he knew how, keeping him alive as long as possible. He'd be begging for death long before it came.

Needing another drink, Dean walks over to the table and grabs the bottle. He downs the last bit and sets it back on the table. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and then sighs, looking over at Sam. He doesn't look like himself. He looks broken.

Dean rakes a hand over his face and sits down in the chair. Sam is staring at the wall in an unnerving way. After a minute, he begins to look twitchy, and then a moment later, he is swinging his feet over the side of the bed and standing.

"Whoa! Where you going?" Dean says, standing.

Sam rubs his palms against his sweats. "Uh, bathroom, I guess."

"You guess?" Dean say slowly, raising his brow.

Sam shrugs a shoulder. "Um, yeah. I need to piss."

Dean raises a brow at him. "Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"Where you really going?" He isn't going to let him get away with lying anymore. He cares about him too damned much to let anything else bad happen to him.

Sam's mouth opens and closes. "Just the bathroom."

Dean studies him for a second, trying to decide whether tying him to the bed is an option.

He has a feeling what Sam is thinking and so he decides to just go for it and ask. "Sam, I want a straight answer here. Are you planning on hurting yourself?"

Sam shifts his weight from foot to foot. His hands fidget with the hem of his shirt. It's enough of an answer for Dean.

Dean scrubs a hand over his face. "All right. Just sit back down."

"Dean—"

Dean puts up a hand to stop him. "I have an idea. I want you to hit me."

"What?" Sam looks genuinely shocked and it makes Dean smirk.

"You heard me. Hit me."

"No," Sam says, stepping back until the back of his knees hit the mattress.

"Why not?" Dean asks, shrugging. "You can't keep taking this shit out on yourself."

Sam tries to walk away but Dean grabs him, spinning him to face him. "Hit me dammit!"

Sam shoves him back. "Stop it, Dean!"

"Come on, Sammy. Let's do this." Dean crouches down, waving Sam to him. "Pretend I'm him. Pretend I'm everything that's hurting inside of you."

Sam bites at his lip. Dean can tell he's thinking about it.

"Get angry, Sam. Let it out!" Dean says. "That bastard touched you, Sammy. He violated you. You have to be angry!"

That does it. Sam face contorts in anger and then he snaps. He draws back his fist and lands a blow to the side of Dean's face.

"That's it," Dean says, wiping the drip of blood from his lip. "Hit me again! Let it out!"

Sam roars and charges forward, grappling with Dean. The wrestle like that for minutes until they are both near exhaustion.

Finally, Sam begins to break. It's what Dean's been waiting for.

"He touched me!" Sam says, pounding a fist against Dean's chest. "He touched me and I couldn't stop him!" Sam keeps hitting, and with each blow, Dean can feel him coming more and more undone. They topple to the floor in a heap.

"He touched me …" Sam's fists are no longer hitting him, but clenching the fabric of Dean's shirt. "He made me touch him." It's a confession that hits Dean so hard he can't draw a breath. He had never envisioned just what had happened between them. Maybe it was selfish of him, but he didn't want to know. Now he can't get the images out of his mind.

Sam's body shakes even harder and Dean reaches his arms around him and pulls him into his chest, petting his hair. "I'm so sorry, Sammy. I should have been there. I should have stopped him," Dean says, cheek pressed against his hair, tears streaming down his face.

"Why, Dean?" Sam pleads. "Why did I do wrong?"

"Nothing, kiddo," Dean says, swallowing back the lump in his throat. "You did nothing wrong. None of this is your fault."

Sam curls himself around Dean and Dean does his best to hold him, rocking him gently. He presses his lips to Sam's hair and whispers that it'll be okay because what else can he say? He has to make this right. Somehow he has to put his brother back together again.

* * *

**AN**: I just want to let you know that I am probably not going to be writing for a few days as there is hurricane heading my way and I don't know if I'll have power. But I have also written nearly a chapter a day for a week straight and I am tired, that and I am a bit unsure where to take this. I would love to know where you would like to see this story go. I love feedback, good or bad. It always inspires me. Thank you, Snarks


	8. Chapter 8

**AN:** I would like to thank Simaril and kazluvsbooks for prereading.

**Disclaimer:** As always, I own nothing. No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

**Chapter 8**

"Ow," Sam says as Dean peels back the tape on his bandage. "That hurts."

"Stop being such a bitch." Dean's face is serious as he looks up at Sam. "I need to check it and make sure it's not getting worse. Doctor's orders."

Sam really doesn't feel all this is necessary. He can check the wound himself, but he figures that Dean needs to feel useful, so he lets him do it. Besides, he's pretty sure Dean won't let him near it, probably afraid he's going to hurt himself more.

Dean peels the rest of the tape off and lifts the gauze, tossing it off to the side. "It's looking good."

Sam looks down at it. It sticks out sharp and red against his pale skin. He feels the need to apologize again, but he bites his tongue, not wanting to see that broken look in Dean's eyes. It's a look he would like to never see again.

Dean takes out a tube of ointment and spreads it across the cut. It doesn't sting, but Sam wishes it did. He misses the pain. The more the cut heals, the more he wants to make a new wound.

Dean grabs a fresh gauze pad and places it over the cut, taping it in place.

"There, you're good to go for a bit longer."

"Thanks," Sam says, readjusting his pants. "You really don't have to do this, you know. I can take care of myself."

Dean grabs the supplies and walks over to the table. "You need to take your meds," Dean says, nodding toward the bottle.

Getting up, Sam walks over to the table, grabbing the bottle of pills. He shakes two out into his hand and reaches for the bottle whiskey to wash them down, but Dean stops him.

"Don't you think you have enough problems?" Dean asks.

Sam raises a brow. "When have you been against drinking?"

"We're not talking about me right now." Dean walks over and grabs a bottle of water from the fridge. "Here. Drink this."

"Thanks," Sam says as he grudgingly takes the bottle. He pops the pills into his mouth and takes a drink of water.

"So," Dean says, grabbing Dad's journal. "I've been looking back and trying to narrow down when, you know, it happened. If I remember right, Dad and I were hunting a siren in Springfield, Ohio."

Sam swallows hard and nods. "Right, go on."

"Well, if the dates are right, we should be able to track down who was working there around that time," Dean says. "That's if Plucky's keeps decent employee records."

"Okay," Sam says. "So we're heading to Springfield?"

Dean nods. "Once you're ready to travel."

"I'm ready now," Sam says.

"No, you're not. Let the cut heal and then we'll talk. That and I don't need you freakin' out in the car."

"Yeah," Sam says, biting at his lip. "I could see how that would be a problem."

Dean walks around the chair to face him. "Sammy, I didn't mean it like that."

Sam puts up a hand. "I don't want to do this right now." He over walks over and grabs his coat. "I need to go out, clear my head."

Dean gives him an incredulous look. "Like hell you are." He crosses his arms over his chest, blocking the way.

"Get outta my way." Sam sighs, arms hanging tiredly at his sides.

"You can't possibly think I'm going to let you out of my sight?"

Sam raises his brow. "Yeah, I do."

"Well you're wrong," Dean says.

Sam steps to the side and Dean counters, moving closer. Sam can feel the anger beginning to bubble up inside him. His fists clench and his takes a breath, trying to calm himself.

"Move," he says carefully.

Dean shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Sam, but I can't."

Sam throws his coat at Dean. "Fine, you know what? Have it your way, but if I can't leave, at least let me have some space."

He walks over to the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind him. It's ridiculous that he needs to hide there, but he can't take Dean watching him for another minute.

He leans against the counter, one hand on either side of the sink. He looks at himself in the mirror, wondering when he became the ghost of a man looking back at him. He looks so hollow, so empty. There are bags under his eyes and his hair seems to have lost its life. He looks nothing like the man he used to be.

There is a soft knock on the door, and he sighs. Dean. He knew he wouldn't be able to give him a minute's peace. He can't blame his brother for caring, though. Worrying is what he does best, at least when it comes to him.

"I'm not hurting myself, so you can leave me alone," Sam says through the door.

There is a brief moment of silence, and then Sam hears the sound of footsteps walking away. He rakes a hand through his hair and sighs, thankful that Dean gave him a little bit of space.

When he reemerges later, Dean is sitting on the bed, pretending to watch TV, but Sam knows the difference. Dean looks too tense to be watching TV.

"Better?" Dean asks casually as he changes the channel.

Sam shrugs. "Yeah, I guess."

"Good," Dean say. "Can we talk then?"

Sam shrugs again, going to sit at the table. "What about?"

Dean sits up, rubbing his hands on his jeans. "This guy … the one who …" Dean trails off, looking at a loss for words.

"Yeah, I get it, what about him?" Sam asks.

"Well, if we're going to have any chance on finding him, we're going to need more to go on."

"Oh," Sam says looking away. "Like?"

Dean rests his arms on his knees, looking over at him. "Well, like how old was he? How tall? Anything you can remember."

Sam's heart begins to pound and his throat feel like it's closing up. He runs a hand anxiously through his hair.

"Umm, maybe in his thirties or forties, I don't know," he says.

Breathing is getting harder now and he struggles to control himself. He wants to cut, he wants to hurt, but he knows he can't, and it makes it all so much more frustrating.

"Anything else? Did he smell like anything? Was he skinny, overweight?"

Sam gets up, rubbing his hands nervously against his jeans. His brow pinches together. "Overweight. Smoker maybe; his breath smelled bad."

Sam's hand twitches at his side, wanting to press against the cut on his leg. He runs his hand through his hair instead, tugging at the roots.

He needs to do something to distract himself, so he walks over to the bed and gets his duffel. There was always something soothing about sharpening a knife. It was methodical and the rhythm of the strokes comforted him.

Sam can see Dean watching him carefully as he picks it up and sets it down on the table. He opens the zippered compartment and looks for the knife that he knows should be in there, but it's not.

"Where's my knife?" he asks, glancing over at Dean.

"I took it," Dean says flatly, like it made perfect sense.

"You took it?" Sam repeats slowly, like maybe he hadn't heard him right.

Dean frowns. "Yeah, and I'm not giving it back."

"What the fuck, man? What did you go baby-proofing the whole motel room?"

Dean shrugs. "And so what if I did?"

Sam shoves the bag onto the floor and runs his hand through his hair.

"This isn't fair, Dean," he says, "I deserve a little more trust."

Dean flips the TV off and sits up. "I don't think you do."

"Fuck you," Sam says. "Give me back my shit. Now."

"Why so you can hurt yourself?"

Sam turns, throwing up his hands. "So I can sharpen it."

"Sorry, but I won't give it back. The last thing you need is something extra sharp and pointy."

"Dean you can't expect me to sit around here staring at the walls with nothing to do."

Dean motions to the remote. "Watch TV."

"Get real, Dean."

Dean crosses his arms over his chest. "Then talk to me."

"I don't have anything I need to say."

Sam begins to pace the room. "I can't keep doing this, Dean. I can't keep hanging out here with you staring at me, waiting for me to screw up."

Dean rakes a hand over his face and sighs. "You know what? You're right. Go out. Go for your walk."

Sam turns, not sure that he heard him right. "What?"

"You heard me. I'll trust you this once. Go for a walk and clear your head, but take your phone with you and don't be long."

Sam doesn't need to be told twice. He walks over and grabs his coat from the floor and heads out the door. He honestly doesn't know if he should be trusted, but he needs to get away.

He walks down the sidewalk, not really caring where he goes. When he finally looks up and takes a glance around, he sees he's not far from Plucky's. It sends a moment of panic through him and he turns quickly and crosses the street, heading to the small park nearby.

He makes his way over to a secluded park bench and takes a seat, elbows resting on his knees, head hung in his hands. It's taking all he has to block out the memories trying to push up through his mind. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

The fresh air both clears his head and makes the memories even sharper. It's a bad mix, and he knows that Dean shouldn't have trusted him. He glances over his shoulder, looking at the Plucky's sign across the street. It brings back so much fear, so much pain; he doesn't know what to do. He should call Dean and tell him, let him come to him, let him help him, but he can't. He doesn't want Dean not to trust him even if he knows he shouldn't be trusted. The urge to push the thoughts back with pain is too great and he presses down on the cut. There is a momentary rush and it pushes back the tide of memories. He presses harder, digging his thumbs hard against it. He feels the flesh give a little and he knows he's probably reopened the cut.

It doesn't take long for the pain to give way to guilt. He knows he just screwed up big time. Dean trusted him and he just threw it out the window in a moment of haste. The guilt feels so heavy in his stomach he almost retches. He doesn't know what to do, whether to tell Dean or not, but then he remembers Dean's face, the disappointment when he first saw the cuts and he knows he can't. He has to lie.

He gets up and makes his way back toward the motel. The walk home feels longer, but maybe it's the guilt that's weighing him down. Each step he can feel the cut tug and ache and it seems it's directly connected to this stomach now, causing it to clench and ache right along with the cut.

When he gets to the door, he swallows and takes a breath, steadying himself for the lies to come.

Dean is sitting at the table when he walks in, reading the paper. He looks up at Sam, brows knit together. Sam knows he's trying to hide it, but he can see the concern etched on his brother's features.

"So, did the walk help?" Dean asks finally.

Sam swallows and hooks his thumbs in his pockets, trying to look casual. "Yeah, it helped."

"Good," Dean says, putting down the paper. He's staring at him now, and it's making Sam shift under his gaze. "You all right? You seem … twitchy."

"Yeah, I'm good," Sam says, taking off his coat and tossing it onto the bed. His heart is already speeding up, and he wonders if Dean followed him on the walk. "So what are we doing for dinner?" he says, rallying for a change of subject.

"Well, you haven't been out much, so how about we hit the diner down the street?"

Sam nods. "Sure, let me hit the head and then we can go."

When Sam gets to the bathroom, he locks the door, letting out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

He quickly undoes his pants and checks the bandage. There's a spot of blood and he curses. Dean's going to see it, and when he does, he's going to know what Sam did. Even if he redresses it, the cut is going to look worse than it did that last time he saw it. There's no way to hide it.

He quickly redoes his pants and walks back out into the room.

"I thought you were hitting the head?"

"I did, why?"

Dean looks at him skeptically. "You didn't flush."

"What?"

"Yeah exactly," Dean says, walking over to him. He looks angry and hurt. It's a bad combination and it makes Sam step back.

"What?" Sam asks, feigning innocence, but he knows Dean has somehow found him out.

Dean motions to his pants. "Drop 'em, Sam."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. If I'm wrong, then I'm sorry, but if I'm right, and I hope to god that I'm not, your hiding something from me again."

Sam has no other way out but to undo his pants and let them fall. He averts his gaze as Dean walks over and kneels down. He shifts the material of his boxers out of the way and then Sam hears it, the curse under his breath.

"Jesus, Sammy," Dean says, peeling the tape off.

Sam looks down and sees the look on Dean's face that he didn't want to see: disappointment.

Dean sighs, running a hand through his hair. He stands and walks over to the table, grabbing the first aid kit. He motions to the bed.

"Go sit down, this is going to take a minute."

Sam sits quietly feeling very much like a child as Dean dabs at the cut with a fresh piece of gauze.

"You spilt it open pretty good," Dean says, pressing gently on the edges of the cut. It makes Sam hiss in pain. "So did you do this in the bathroom or when you were out on your walk?"

Sam sighs. "Why does it matter?"

Dean looks up at him, disapproval in his eyes. "Because I want to know I can trust you."

"You can trust me."

"Good, then when did it happen, Sam?"

Sam averts his gaze, not wanting to see Dean's face when he tells him. "The park."

"That's awesome, Sammy," Dean says. "Just fucking awesome." Dean tosses the ointment off to the side.

"It's not that big of a deal. It could have been worse. I could have done worse, Dean," Sam says, "You don't need to treat me like a child who can't be trusted. I controlled myself today."

"You call this control?"

"Yeah, I do."

Dean places a new piece of gauze in place and tapes it down. "Well, excuse me if I have a different opinion on the definition."

"If I wanted to cut, I'd cut, Dean," Sam explains. "I'd find something to use."

"That's reassuring."

"It should be, because I didn't do it," Sam says. "I wanted to, and I didn't. I only pressed on it a little."

"A little? You split that cut wide open."

"I know and I'm sorry, but you can't expect me to just stop. I can't."

Dean gets up and walks over toward the window. Running his hand through his hair, he sighs. "I'm not okay with letting you hurt yourself."

"I'm not asking for that, just for you to be less angry if it happens."

"It shouldn't happen," Dean snaps.

"But if it does. I need to be able to come to you."

"Come to me before it happens, then. Tell me. I promise not to be mad, but give me a chance to talk you out of it."

"Okay," Sam says. "It's a deal then. I'll come to you, but you have to lay off the babysitting."

Dean nods. "Deal."

* * *

AN: Please review :) It's the only payment we poor authors get.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Sam closes his eyes and rests his head against the cool glass of the window. They've been driving for over a day and they still have another few hours to go before they reached Springfield.

"Sam," Dean says. "You wanna stop for food? There's a rest area up ahead."

Sam groans, twisting his neck side to side to free the knots forming there. "Yeah, sure."

They pull off at the next exit. As soon as they park, Sam makes a beeline to the bathroom. Once he's finished, he goes over and meets Dean. He's already ordering something for the two of them.

"I got you a salad," Dean says, grabbing the bag from the counter.

"Thanks."

They walk back to the car and get in. Dean digs into the bag and pulls out Sam's salad, tossing it to him along with a plastic fork. "Eat up. Big day ahead."

Sam nods. "Yeah." Sam pokes around at his salad. Knowing that they are so close to Springfield is making his appetite disappear.

"You all right, Sammy?"

"Hmm." Sam looks up.

"You look like something's eating you."

Sam shrugs. "I guess it's just we're so close, you know?"

Dean takes a breath. "We don't have to do this yet. We can wait."

"No, I want to. I need to. What if he's still out there hurting people, hurting kids. We have to find him."

"We will, Sam. Don't worry."

They eat in silence after that, and soon they are back on the road.

Sam's heart jumps to his throat when he sees the 'Welcome to Springfield' sign. They are really doing this; they are really back where it all started, and they are going to find him. It's both a relief and a nightmare.

Dean gets them a room at a motel just off the interstate.

They lug in their gear and begin to settle in. It doesn't take long. It's a well practiced routine.

Dean grabs his suit and begins to change. "So, I'm going to head down to Plucky's and do some recon," Dean says, adjusting his tie.

"Already?"

"Might as well get a jump on things. Why? Do you need me to stay?"

Sam shakes his head. "No, I'm all right. You head over and check things out. I'll just hang out here."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, go ahead," Sam says.

Dean heads out the door, and Sam waits until he hears the Impala roar to life before he lets his nerves show.

He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. There is difference between wanting to confront your past and actually doing it, and he's finding the prospect of doing it especially hard.

He grabs his laptop and sits down at the table. He begins to research, searching the local sex offender list and finding what he can on their employment histories. After an hour of looking, he's burnt out, having found nothing. Apparently this guy hasn't been caught yet, which is even more disconcerting.

Frustrated, he gets up and walks over to the bed, taking a seat of the edge. He rests his elbows on his knees and cradles his head in his hands, his hair falling like a curtain around his face.

There is a familiar need rising in him, one that he knows he can't give into. It's the need to cut, to hurt. It grounds him like nothing else. But he knows he can't do it. He needs to hang on for Dean.

Needing a distraction, he grabs his coat and heads out the door for a walk.

The streets are busy and not at all quiet or relaxing. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and walks down the sidewalk, not really caring where it leads him.

A honking horn catches his attention a few minutes into his walk, and he looks back over his shoulder. The Impala is pulling up to a stop beside him.

Knowing Dean is probably worried, Sam grabs the door handle and gets in. Sam glances over at him and can see the concern on his brother's face.

"Hey, you okay?" Dean asks.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Dean's face goes serious. "You don't look fine."

Sam sighs and leans back in the seat, looking out the window. "I wanted to cut, but I didn't. I went for a walk instead."

He waits for the reaction, the anger, but it doesn't come. Instead, Dean nods and shifts the car into drive. "Are you okay now?"

Sam swallows. "I think so."

"Good, that's all that matters."

"So did you have any luck at Plucky's?" Sam asks.

"Actually, yeah, I got a pretty good lead. There's this one older guy, a clown, he worked there back when it happened, still does."

"You think it's the same guy?"

"From what I got from the other employees, he's as creepy as they come, and last year there was an accusation against him, but it turned out unfounded, so they say."

Sam doesn't know whether to be happy or horrified. If it's the same guy, he's been hurting kids all along. He never stopped. The thought makes Sam sick.

"Are you okay, Sammy?" Dean asks suddenly as he pulls back into the motel lot.

"Yeah, it's just a lot to take in."

Dean nods. "Will you be okay to stay here alone while I go have a chat with this guy?"

"No. I mean, you can't go alone. What if it is him? Don't I get a chance to talk to him?"

"What is there to say, Sam? He hurt you. If it is him, I don't plan on letting him live long enough to talk about it."

"Dean, you can't take this away from me. You can't kill him."

"Yeah, I can, Sammy. He's a monster. He's hurt countless kids over the years. He deserves to die, painfully."

"I'm going with you."

"Fine, but if it gets too much for you, you need to promise me you'll step out."

"I promise."

It takes about twenty minutes to reach the house. It's a small two story walk up with a rickety old fence surrounding the front yard. The gate opens with a squeal, and they walk up to the door.

Dean positions himself in front of Sam, like he is somehow going to be able to protect him from what lies on the other side of the door. Dean presses the doorbell and they wait.

There is a shuffling sound, and then the door handle jiggles. The door only opens inches, but it's enough to see the man's face, and immediately, Sam is hit with a rush of adrenaline. He recognizes the lines of his face. Even though he was wearing makeup when he saw him last, his chin, his jaw line, his eyes, they look the same.

He sucks in a breath and it makes Dean look over his shoulder at him. He whispers, "You okay?"

Sam nods hastily.

Dean turns his attention back to the man who is now staring at them intently.

"Can I help you, boys?" the man asks. His voice sends shivers down Sam's spine. This is the guy. The voice is unmistakable.

Dean plasters on a fake smile and reaches in his pocket, pulling out his ID. "FBI, sir. We here you might know some things about some assaults down at Plucky's."

The man's face goes tight, and he tries to shut the door, but Dean slips his foot in.

"Hey, you can't do that!" the man says, trying hard to push Dean away from the door. "I have rights!"

"It's him, Dean. I remember him."

That's all Dean seems to need. He slams his shoulder into the door and pushes his way inside.

"Hey! Get out of my house!" The man goes reaching for his phone, but Dean slams a fist square into his jaw. The man stumbles back, lip bleeding.

"You like touching little boys?" Dean sneers.

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

Dean hauls back and punches him in the gut, doubling him over. Sam watches, frozen in place by the scene. He wants to speak, but he can't seem to find the words.

"I think you know exactly what I'm talking about!" Dean shoves the man as he tries to regain his balance, sending him sprawling to the floor. Dean crouches down beside him. "Tell me, did they ask you to stop? Did they beg you?"

The man sputters. "I didn't … It wasn't like that!"

The man's near confession is enough to break Sam free from his trance. He steps forward and looks at the pathetic excuse for a man. He swallows hard, and Dean looks up at him concerned.

Sam opens and closes his mouth as he tries to pick his words. "You said I would like it. You said it would feel good."

The man's eyes go wide. "What?"

"You heard me," Sam says.

"Who are you?"

"You made me touch you." Sam steps closer, his face twisted in pain. The memories becoming so sharp they feel like daggers cutting into his heart. "You said no one would believe someone as dirty and disgusting as me."

Dean looks up at him. "He said that to you?"

"Yeah, among other things."

Dean's face seems to go impossibly hard, and he looks back down at the man. "You called my brother dirty after what you did?"

The man whimpers and pushes himself back. Dean grabs his collar and drags him closer. He bends down and whispers something in the man's ear. Sam can't hear it but whatever it is, the man begins to shake in fear.

Sam wants to hit him, to kill him, but the thought of touching him again makes him sick. His breathing gets faster, and he clenches his hands into fists. He's losing himself to the tide of emotion.

"Sam," Dean says, "I need you to go out to the car."

Sam blinks at him. "Why?"

"Because you don't need to have this on your head."

Sam looks down at the quivering mess of a man.

"Please, don't leave me with him. I'm sorry for what I've done. I never meant to hurt anyone," he pleads.

Sam always thought that hearing an apology would change something, give him some peace, but it didn't. In fact, it only made him hate the man even more. He knows leaving the man with Dean meant he was going to die, and not quickly. Dean had once confessed to Sam a few of the things he learned in hell, and Sam knew that Dean wouldn't hold back with this man. He was going to suffer.

Maybe sensing the end was near, the man suddenly makes a break for it. He pushes himself up, grabbing at the nearby table for support. Before Dean can grab him, Sam is there. He slams his fist into his face, again and again. Dean doesn't stop him. He just watches.

"You did this to me!" Sam shouts. "How many kids? How many lives have you ruined?" There are tears streaming down Sam's face, and it's making his hair stick to his cheeks. He can barely catch his breath. There is just so much anger inside him.

Dean stands and reaches an arm around Sam's waist, pulling him back. "Easy, Sammy," Dean says. "Take a breath." Dean's other hand is there on Sam's neck, rubbing gently. "Nice and slow. Take a few breaths for me."

Dean's calloused fingers work gently, and his touch slowly grounds Sam. He's able to slow his breathing and sees the damage he's done to the man.

"Better?" Dean asks.

"Yeah," Sam pants. "I think I'm gonna go out to the car. I need some air."

"Okay, I'll be out soon."

Sam goes out, closing the door behind him. Seconds later, music begins to blare from inside the house.

Sam knows it's to cover the man's screams.

And scream he does. Beneath the music, Sam can hear the sounds of him crying out. Some noises don't even sound human, but eventually they stop, and the music turns off.

A little while later, Dean appears. He looks happy, contented almost.

"So, you ready to hit the road?" Dean asks.

Sam looks at the house one last time and then nods. "Yeah, I think I am."

**-End-**

**AN:** Although the story is over, I may decide to continue and make this a 'verse. I suppose it depends on demand and whether people would like to read more about these two. Let me know if you want more. Love, snarks


	10. Sequel News

I just wanted to let you know that Hidden Truths now has a sequel being written. It's called Blatant Lies. Check it out and let me know what you think.


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